


Hamish

by iscatterthemintimeandspace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:59:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iscatterthemintimeandspace/pseuds/iscatterthemintimeandspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was for a prompt I did awhile back. </p><p>John discovered on the eve of the fall that their Surrogate is pregnant with his and Sherlock's child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

His phone is ringing, but John can’t hear it. He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to hear anything that isn’t his husband’s voice or the breathy sounds he makes when he snuggles against John in bed. He’s stunned as he sits vacantly in Lestrade’s office, not knowing what to do with himself. Sherlock would be bouncing around Scotland Yard, spouting insults at everyone who got in his way, not sitting catatonic, waiting for someone to give him orders. 

He can’t think of anything besides the sight of his lover falling from the roof or the sickening smack of his head on the concrete. People mill around him, not meeting his eyes, staring at him when he puts his head down. He knows they can’t face him, because in part they feel responsible. Sally Donovan had made excuses every half hour to walk past the office, sweeping her eyes over him as if she was waiting for him to come after her. No one save Mrs. Hudson had known about their union, but they suspected, if not knew that John would and had killed to protect his friend. They didn’t want to be next in his scope. He can’t take sitting here, avoiding their eyes any longer. Sighing, John picked up his phone and walked out onto the street. 

“John Watson” He says to the voice on the other end. The exciting jabbering unnerves him, but he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Bonnie, their surrogate, was on the line, the procedure took. She’s pregnant with their child. She bubbles, not knowing what has just happened. She’s so thrilled for them she doesn’t hear when John’s voice cracks, telling her he’ll stop over later. A wave of nausea curls rapidly in the pit of his empty stomach and he retches onto the street. The burn of the acid in his throat and nose assaults him and knocks him back into reality. 

After years of trying, he was going to have a child. Sherlock’s child.


	2. 3 Years Later...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is expecting a warm welcome from his lover, but never like this.

The once-dead man pulled his coat collar against the icy chill of the December wind. His thin blue scarf did little to prevent him from being chilled to the bone. He walked swiftly, trying to avoid being noticed by the crowd of weary Christmas customers doing last minute shopping. Sherlock burrowed his hands deeper into the pockets of his long grey coat, crinkling the paper of the wrapped parcel beneath his arm. He normally loved the cold and the sharpening effect it had on his finely honed mind. But today it was little more than a bother. He stuck his hand into the street, hailing a cab. One skidded in front of him and Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective ducked inside, tucking his thin frame into the seat. 

“221b Baker Street Please”.

“Hamish Siger Holmes-Watson, If I catch you touching that skull again, I swear –“John was cut off by a giant crash from the living room. He rushed from his bedroom at 221b Baker Street, wiping his hands on his pants. His three year old son had dragged the coffee table over to the fireplace and was attempting to lay his grubby fingers on an old human skull. The picture frames that had sat on the mantle were broken and smashed on the floor. John grabbed his teetering child under his arm and sat down in his old recliner. 

“Hamish” he said evenly, leveling himself with the small boy. Two heavily lashed blue-green eyes looked guiltily up at him. “What have I told you about listening to Papa?” The child’s darks curls bobbed. 

“That even if I don’t want to, I need to listen for my own safety” Hamish replied. John laughed lightly. He wasn’t sure it was possible for a three year old to sound more annoyed with him. Gently he lifted the skull from the mantelpiece and showed it to Hamish. 

“Your daddy used to talk to this skull when he was thinking." He told him. His son made a face. 

“Why?” 

John sighed, a sudden wave of emotion taking him by surprise. Even after three years, talking about Sherlock was hard. It was getting more and more difficult to answer Hamish’s questions. 

“I don’t know. Because he was a genius, Hamish and sometimes genius’s do things like that” He could tell from the boy’s face his answer hadn’t satisfied him. Hamish looked at him resolutely. 

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a genius just like Daddy and then I’ll get to talk to the skull and you can’t stop me”. John exhaled, shaking his head. 

Hamish looked up into his father’s sad face. “Do you miss him very much?” he asked. 

John smiled “Every day. Now go on and wash up for bed”. Hamish hopped off of his lap and raced for the bathroom. John ran his hands through his hair. It had been a very difficult three years for him. From the moment he and Sherlock had decided to try for a child, he had known it would be challenging. Raising a child was never easy, but raising Sherlock Holmes’s child, by himself no less was a whole different ballpark. Hamish was Sherlock’s spitting image, from his unruly hair to his long, coltish limbs. He was also extremely bright, impulsive, stubborn and manipulative. He had every one he met wrapped around his finger. Mrs. Hudson had a soft spot the size of the Grand Canyon for him. She all but begged John to stay when she found out he was expecting. Hamish had not been an easy baby and she’d been angel looking after him so he could sleep. John mopped his face with his hand and rose. He walked to his bedroom slowly to grab Cluedo. Hamish refused to go to sleep unless they played. 

 

Sherlock stood motionless of the steps on his flat, intellectually preparing himself for what awaited him. How much had changed in 3 years? He knew from his sources that John still lived in their flat. He’d kept the same job. He shopped and ate the same places. John Watson was a man of habit. It was reasonable to think he had not changed, but then again people could often be unpredictable when exposed to trauma. The detective walked up the stairs, mentally tallying the things that had changed in his absence. Mrs. Hudson had a new floor put in. Not professionally done. 

The door of 221b was slightly open, bleeding light into the dark hallway. Sherlock opened the door and came face to face with a set of his own eyes. A small boy wearing worn Spiderman pajamas was staring at him inquisitively. He stared back, studying the child. Around three years old. Intelligent. He thought. His eyes swept through the flat.

The living room was more or less the same, but definitely cleaner than when he had lived here. All of his books still stood on the shelves and his skull was perched on the corner of the fireplace.  


“John” He called up the stairs. He stepped further into the flat. The kitchen was barely recognizable. Gone were the microscopes, beakers and jars, replaced by kitchen appliances all brightly colored. The little boy inched closer and closer to him, impaling him with his eyes. 

“Who are you?” Hamish asked, his gaze taking in the stranger that had just entered his home. His eyes narrowed suspiciously “Are you one of Uncle Mycroft’s friends?” He’d been kidnapped before; he wasn’t taking any more chances. 

Sherlock’s brain reeled Uncle Mycroft? 

John walked out from his bedroom and was lightly padding down the stairs when he heard his name. 'You are just hearing things again John'. He told himself. 'Why do you keep doing this? 'He thought he heard Sherlock’s voice so many times before, in the streets, behind him yet always out of his reach. The moment he would turn, the speaker would be gone. 

“Hamish” He called downstairs “I’ve got the Cluedo. We can only play if you promise not to ch-“John stopped short in the living room. 

The game dropped from his hands and clattered onto the floor beside him. Standing, in his living room was his husband, Sherlock Holmes. It couldn’t be. This was some sort of cruel trick. Someone had found and paid a man who looked like his Sherlock to come and torment him, but who? Anderson had never forgiven him for Hamish microwaving his cat. It had to be him. 

Sherlock could see by the emotions that flicked across John’s features that he didn’t believe the man standing in front of him was actually there. He stared through him like a ghost.

“John, I can assure you it’s me” He said calmly. “I was never dead, it was necessary-“. The child scurried wordlessly to John’s side, refusing to take his eyes off Sherlock.

“What is that?” He asked suddenly. John walked tentatively towards him, touching the sleeve of his coat first as if making sure he was real, and then enveloping him in his arms. He inhaled, breathing in his scent. Purely Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes, Meet Hamish Siger Holmes-Watson, Your son”


	3. Daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets his son.

“My son? But how?” Sherlock felt his face go red, which didn’t often happen. His son. He had a son. A son that John had raised on his own for three years. 

“Let me put on the kettle and put Hamish to sleep, and then we’ll talk”. He picked the small boy up. He hadn’t said a word since Sherlock had walked in, which was extremely odd. Hamish always had something to say about one subject or another and he was notorious for repeating conversations he wasn’t supposed to have heard. John knew their conversation would be heated and didn’t want his son to be present. He exited up the stairs to his bedroom. Hamish accepted being tucked into bed without his normal stream of questions and objections. He snuggled up with his tattered blanket, made out of one of John’s old jumpers, and closed his eyes. The doctor looked down suspiciously over his sleeping child, but shrugging walked downstairs to his waiting partner. 

He found Sherlock in the kitchen, staring at the hot water pot, his hands pressed together on his lips. He said Sherlock’s name loudly, knowing how hard it was to rouse him when he was thinking. The detective’s eyes fluttered slightly and glanced over at John. John beckoned him into the living room, settling into his arm chair. 

For once in his life, Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Being considerate of anyone other than himself had never been his strong suite. There were times he didn’t know how John put up with his disregard for his feelings. He intended to come back to Baker Street and make it up to John, but the John of his mind was not a single father. The John he had pictured would forgive him because he’d always been able to take care of himself, in one fashion or another. Mind-John wouldn’t have inspired this sort of guilt. 

 

 

“I didn’t know, John” He started. “Mycroft never told be about the child. I”. The doctor cut him off   
“His name is Hamish, and Mycroft knew but you didn’t tell me?” The hurt was evident in his voice  
“I was trying to keep you safe. Moriarty-“  
“He’s been dead for three years, Sherlock. I examined him myself. I made sure he was dead… I made sure…” John shut his eyes hard, trying to keep the tears under his eyelids from falling. He cut out Jim Moriarty’s heart during the autopsy. He severed his spinal cord and watched as every last drop of blood drained from his body. After his husband’s death, the least he could do was to make sure the man who pushed him to it was gone as well. It had taken a year for him to be able to touch another patient. 

“If I could find a way to fake my own death so could he.” Sherlock followed every lead Mycroft fed him. Normally he would have never collaborated with his older brother, but John’s safety was something he would take no chances with. Moriarty had to be dead with no way back before the detective would risk being seen in John’s company. The bastard would never stop hunting him, unless he was dead. That had been something Sherlock would have personally made sure of. 

“In three years, you didn’t have the time to pick up your mobile and let your husband know you weren’t dead? Or was it too boring to think of coming back to the man who loves you?” he shouted. John couldn’t contain himself any longer. The years of suppressed feelings just poured out of him. The most infuriating part was that Sherlock sat there, taking every bit of it without a word, watching John’s face with those vexatious eyes. “I trusted you and instead of giving me a choice, you broke me and left me to raise a child by myself. And when I finally think I’m strong enough to do it on my own, you come back with “I didn’t know?” You’re a self-righteous bastard, Sherlock” He swept out of the room, slamming the front door as he stumbled down the stairs, cursing at himself into the cold night air.

Sherlock let him go. He’d learned long ago that unless John had time to vent, nothing would ever get solved. He eased himself up from the couch and took the skull from the edge of the fireplace. “Hey!” said a voice from the top on the stairs “Don’t touch it. It belongs to my Daddy”. Hamish flew down the stairs, his blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape. “Put it back!” The detective got down on his knee and looked the boy in the face.  
“It’s mine” Sherlock replied. Hamish crossed his hands over his chest. “No, it’s not. Papa says it belongs to Daddy and you aren’t my Daddy”. The older man was intrigued. “How do you know that?” He questioned, wanting to see how the 3 year old had arrived at this conclusion. 

“Because my daddy wouldn’t make Papa angry. Papa loves my daddy very much. I know because he says his name when he sleeps sometimes.” replied Hamish imperiously. “He looks sad when he thinks I’m not watching.” As he was speaking, Sherlock studied the child. He was extremely bright for his age and very observant. Most children only saw what they were doing. It wasn’t often they noticed the emotions of the people around them. How interesting. 

“What has your father told you about your daddy? The detective asked. 

“He told me daddy was a genius and he talked to the skull. He played the violin and Papa won’t let me go in his room.” 

“His room…” Sherlock stood up, running up towards where his bedroom once was, Hamish in close pursuit. He opened the door to find it exactly as he’d left it three years ago. His microscopes were still side by side on his desk. His violin lay on the bed, but he noticed something strange. Nothing was covered in dust. John kept his room exactly as he had left it, yet he cleaned it frequently. 

“This is my daddy” Hamish said suddenly, picking up a frame from the bottom of the closet. Sherlock came close to the boy and picked the picture out of his hands. It was the only picture he and John had ever taken together, on their wedding day. He was actually smiling and John was beaming. The detective sighed deeply, sinking down on his bed only to find his child staring intently at him. The boy looked puzzled and his eyes flicked from the picture to his father’s face rapidly. 

“You look like my daddy” He said quickly. Sherlock could practically see the way his mind was turning, putting the pieces together. The clues John had unconsciously planted in Hamish’s brain for three years coming to fruition. 

“You are my daddy”

John gently banged his head against the cold wall. He was several blocks away from his flat, but could not go any further. He was a terrible father leaving his son with a man he’d never known, even if that man was biologically his father. Hopefully his yelling hadn’t woken Hamish up and he was still blissfully asleep with his blanket. The doctor took a sharp intake of breath, filling his lungs with the cold night air. He hadn’t meant to yell. He just wanted to understand why his partner had seen fit to abandon him. The thing that bothered him the most was that in his heart of hearts, he would have done the same thing. He wouldn’t have risked Sherlock or Hamish’s life even if it meant hurting them emotionally. There was no way around it, he was the bloody bastard now. 

 

John walked slowly home, mentally composing an apology with each frigid step. It would be easier if Sherlock just hit him, but he knew there was no chance he would. In his mind, he'd already forgiven him. His anger at Sherlock staying away was vastly out shown by the happiness and relief of knowing he was alive, and back in his life. He smiled despite himself. They could be a family again, Hamish would have two parents instead of one. Life could be good again ,if Sherlock would forgive him. 

He grew steadily nervous as he approached Baker Street, his tongue drying up in his mouth. What if Sherlock didn't forgive him? What if he left again? John didn't know if he could function knowing he was alive, but not by his side. As morbid as it sounded in his head, it was easier coping with the fact that Sherlock was dead, rather than the fact he didn't want him anymore. He climbed the steps briskly, reveling in the warmth that surrounded him completely.

The doctor was shocked by the scene that was laid before him. His living room was in utter disarray. The cushions were on the floor, propped up like a fort with Cluedo underneath it, set up in the middle of a game. The skull was lying on its side under his chair and Sherlock's violin was open sitting on the coffee table. The most astonishing part of it all was the sight of his husband, snoozing on the couch, gangly limbs akimbo, with their son cuddled up contently on his chest. Hamish's thumb was in his mouth and his free hand was curled around Sherlock's shirt. John felt warmth well up in his belly and quietly crossed the room to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. The sleepy detective opened his eyes and smiled lazily at his partner. 

"Welcome home" he said, carefully sitting up, supporting the sleeping Hamish with his arms. The boy moaned in protest and clung to Sherlock tighter. Smiling, John took him from his husband and padded upstairs to put him into his trundle bed. 

Sherlock surprised him in the hallway, kissing him firmly and deeply on the mouth. Any doubts John had melted away under his partner's warm ministrations. He was scrambling for the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt when he noticed his hands were shaking. He gathered them into his own and kissed them. The detective opened the door to his bedroom, picking John up and carrying him over the threshold and into joy.


End file.
